


You're my notebook (hold my thoughts)

by dishonestdreams



Series: Fifteen Minute Scribbles [6]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Power Imbalance, Pseudo-Incest, Threats, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 13:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19006900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dishonestdreams/pseuds/dishonestdreams
Summary: They say the pen is mightier than the sword.  They lied.





	You're my notebook (hold my thoughts)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistressKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/gifts), [pushkin666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666/gifts).



> Last of the fifteen minute ficlets, for the prompt _"My Chemical Romance, notebook"_
> 
> Apparently I am creating a relationship tag with this one. Who knew?

Mikey likes to write.

It’s not so easy out here in the zones. Paper’s a luxury they don’t usually have the credits for, and Poison’s fucked if he’s passing over ammo and food in favour of a fucking pencil. Kobra thinks it’s bullshit and Ghoul never really notices Mikey unless he gets in the way anyway, but Poison knows Jet gets what he can, when he can. Poison’d be pissed at the interference, but he likes the way Mikey’s eyes light up when he actually gets hold of some supplies, so he lets it go.

Doesn’t hurt that it always, _always_ puts Mikey in a good mood for the rest of the night. Poison _really_ likes Mikey’s good moods.

So, Mikey likes to write, but it’s not often he has what he needs for it. Not that he complains, he knows better than that, but Poison’s seen him get pretty inventive when the urge strikes. Labels peeled from food cans, fingers in the sand and sharp rocks against the wall. A slice into his own finger once, but only once. Poison doesn’t take well to other people hurting what’s his, even if it’s self-inflicted, and Mikey learnt that lesson the hard way. He’s not tried that again; these days Mikey finds other ways to get his words out that don’t mean him saying them.

This one’s new though. It’s late, or maybe early, Poison’s not really sure, but the diner’s quiet and he’s more than halfway to sleep himself. He thinks he might have been all the way there, except that Mikey’s not asleep. Mikey’s curled up next to him, mostly still in that way he only ever gets when he’s writing and Poison can feel the trace of his fingers against his hip. He’s clearly writing, letters that Poison can’t identify just from their press against his skin, and it’s enough to spark in his brain and drag him back from whatever rest he was thinking about getting.

Fucking Mikey.

“Whatcha writing, wordsmith?” Poison asks, sleep still burring the edges of his words, and Mikey stills, his fingers unmoving points of heat against Poison’s hip.

“I thought you were asleep,” he says after a long moment of silence and Poison hums. 

“Figured that,” he says. “Not what I asked you though.”

Mikey shrugs, just a shift of his shoulder against Poison’s chest in the darkness. “Nothing,” he says and it’s such an obvious fucking lie that Poison wants to laugh. So he does, the sound ringing out brash and overly loud in the quiet of the room, and he feels Mikey start to pull away.

“Don’t,” he says, and Mikey freezes where he is. Poison traces his fingers across Mikey’s neck, meaningless shapes rather than letters, before he slides them up into his hair. He tightens his grip, not enough to really hurt, and tugs Mikey’s head back until he can look into his eyes. It’s dark enough to hide most of Mikey’s expression, but Poison can see the way his eyes are darting any way to avoid looking at him.

It’s fucking annoying.

“Whatcha writing?” he asks again, because isn’t that the whole fucking point of this discussion and Mikey twitches against his hold.

“Nothing that matters,” he offers, and Poison growls low in his throat.

“Gonna make me drag it out of you, wordsmith?” he says, and it comes out low and uglier than he’d intended. “We both know you’re gonna give me what I want in the end, but you wanna make it difficult for yourself, I’m okay with that.”

Mikey swallows a little. “I just, I can’t,” he says. “They’re…secrets.”

Poison moves then, rolls them quick and easy until Mikey’s trapped underneath him on the dirty old mattress and he leans forward, letting his weight push Mikey down until his mouth is pressed against Mikey’s ear. “You don’t have secrets from me,” he murmurs

He’s close enough to hear Mikey’s whimper.


End file.
